“That’s Britt Manning,” said Fenella. “And that’s Geoffrey Spoon.” She gave Monterey a smug look, like she hadn’t forgiven him for ruling that Ruthven knew more about vintage media.
Monterey considered this. “Britt Manning. She was in a couple of episodes of Cramberleigh. Not that long ago, if it’s 1978 now. She was Boudicca in Season 11.”2
“That’s really not what she’s famous for,” Fenella sighed.3
“The twenty-fourth century begs to differ. Let’s not pretend you recognise her from Neighbours.”
“Shh!”
“…and you know she’d want to have a drink in her honour, and keep partying until it’s 1979,” said Britt Manning, full on crying now, tears pouring down her bare cheeks.
“Charge your glasses,” said an equally weeping Geoffrey Spoon, whose beard must be sodden. “And join us in a celebration of the life of the one, the only, the iconic Fleur Shropshire.”
“Fleur Shropshire,” chorused the party guests.
“Ohh,” said Monterey, finally figuring it out. “Did the Anachronauts turn 1978 into an Event on purpose, so no one in the future would be able to figure out she faked her death on the set of that Titanic movie? Is Fleur fucking Shropshire the reason I couldn’t attend Freddie Mercury’s most famous party of all time?”
“Almost certainly,” said Cressida from her chair, where she was dutifully sipping the water provided by her sister.
Everyone else was into the punch. Monterey accepted a glass from Oxford, not admitting he would rather have a cup of tea. It tasted like raspberries and gin. There were marigold petals floating atop it.
“These are all film people then,” he said, observing the crowd.
“A lot of them are cast and crew from the, uh, Titanic film,” said Oxford. “They never got to finish it. Fleur’s death wrecked the whole production.”
“Did as much damage as she could on the way out, then.” Monterey hadn’t quite come to terms with the fact that the fabulous Cramberleigh actress was a diabolical mastermind, and a leader of the Anachronauts. “She was my favourite Lady Wildegreen,” he added in a morose voice.
“So basic,” said Cressida, smirking at him from over her glass. “She was everyone’s favourite Lady Wildegreen.”
“I liked Lady Sophia,” said Fenella, with a hint of rebellion. “I cried when she died of the Spanish flu.”
Lovelace was now perched high on a table covered in baked slices, sprout sandwiches and celery curls. Her back arched in a way that Monterey recognised as a significant crisis signal. He abandoned his glass of raspberry hooch and ambled after her.
“Spotted a Bond actor?” he suggested. “You’re going to have to let your grudge against Roger Moore slide if we spend much longer in 1978.”
“Do you see that?” Lovelace asked in a tense voice. “Over there, in blue.”
Monterey looked. Beyond all the swaying sunflower children, he spotted a group who did not quite fit the party’s general vibe.
There were half a dozen of them, standing in pairs here and there around the garden. They wore dark blue robes with hoods, and expressions that were neither mournful, nor blissed out, the two modes for most people at this gathering.
If Monterey could describe this gang’s facial expressions in single word, it would be: intense.
“Looks a bit culty,” he murmured to Lovelace. “Let’s regroup.”
Fenella and Oxford were still hovering around Cressida, who did not look much better than when she first sat down.
“Time to leave,” said Monterey cheerfully. “Spotted some sinister blue space nuns. Also, this isn’t much of a party.”
“Blue space nuns,” repeated Cressida. “Are you drunk?”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Monterey said wistfully. From the tideline on that jug of party punch, he was going to have to be the designated driver. “Can we get out of here? There’s not a lot of point to hanging around the late 70s if Freddie Mercury isn’t going to turn up.”
“We’ll head back to the time aisle separately,” began Oxford. “So as not to raise suspicion… oh, you’re gone.”
Monterey had spun himself around the second that Oxford began his sentence. That was the trouble with working alongside someone you’d known since childhood. Everything he said was so predictable.
“Left,” hissed Lovelace as they made their way through the crowd. “Go to the right of Honey Gale.4 Between those two Led Zeppelins.”
“Neither of those men is from Led Zeppelin,” Monterey shot back, but his cat’s descriptions were efficient. He slid apologetically between two men with long curly hair. They were nearly back at the shed.
A woman stepped directly in his path. Her deep indigo hood was pulled down low on her forehead. This close, it was clear that she was hairless apart from her eyelashes.
“You’re a bit early,” Monterey said breathlessly. “Dune isn’t filming for at least another…”
The stern space nun in blue held up a hand, and he fell silent.
“Where is the jade pineapple?” she asked in a voice that didn’t sound like it thought she was talking nonsense.
Monterey batted his own eyelashes, to check they were there. “Excuse me?”
“The jade pineapple.”
“Yes, heard that part.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” he considered. “Is it in the brownies full of drugs? This seems like that sort of party.”
